“Any day,” said Emmason, battling with his wounded dignity; and Moon turned to Eastwood.
“Best send John Raikes. Fit him up wi’ pigeons and let him get off to-day. I’ll see the clogger.”
“And for the other tomfoolery, pretending to search premises: Cope has a warrant?”
“Hm! Ay, he has a warrant,” Eastwood said, with a shrug.
“So ye’re wakening up, are ye?” Moon grunted; and the tipsy tassels of the magistrate’s handkerchief shook as he nodded, as if he himself had been addressed.
“As for seeing Parker again,” he said, in a subdued voice, “I might as well sit where I am. I am bound to say it looks as if I was discredited, and I have thought of handing in my commission. Parker knows more than I. Even this”--he tapped the document--“even this I only received in common with every other magistrate in the Riding.”
“God be thanked for a plain word from ye at last!” Moon said bitterly. “Can ye talk any more in that fashion?”
“There’s little else to say,” the humiliated magistrate replied. “If it would serve any end now to add my testimony against Northrop and Haigh--for they’re both dead as clay, I fear----”
“That’ll do,” he said; “now hold your tongue.... James, if you can come with me we’ll fit John up for money. We’re not beat because Emmason’s frightened. There’s chances. Juries aren’t so ready to convict now for these half-crown matters when it’s a man’s neck; and Raikes knows his way about. Come. We’ve only two words to say to the lads, and the safest place for Cope will be his own bed. Come.--Don’t you go adding testimony, Emmason. Good day.”
They passed out into the glaring street, and that same afternoon John Raikes, with half a dozen pigeons in a cage, set off on horseback for York.
Cope was no longer a jest. Even that merry soul, Cole the clogger, had ceased to button his coat over his arms and to slip the clogs on his hands, and only the magpie continued from habit to whistle “Hey, Johnny Cope,” when the supervisor’s toddling steps sounded down the croft. The reiterated “Good morning--morning, morning, morning,” was returned shortly and without merriment; and Cole declared that he could have flung a clog-sole at the man only for his jarring laugh. Somebody had called the supervisor “the nail i’ the stocks”--an expression from the fulling-mill, where, should a nail get into the trough where the heavy stampers pounded the wet cloth, the whole work was rent--and the nickname stuck.